Categories > TV > Doctor Who
As Good As They Get
0 reviewsXover with the anime Black Jack. Wounded in the line of all-around evil making, the Master must turn to a Doctor to help his little problem - but not just any Doctor.
0Unrated
A bullet to the shoulder in the petrified forest of Skaro had put the Master on MIA status when it concerned Gallifrey, the Daleks, the Cybermen, UNIT, and about any and every other organised company currently looking for him. It was his (mis)fortune that the bullet contained a living tissue-shrinking virus and even more of his (mis)fortune that there was no licenced doctor in his area of the universe that could remove it without chopping off the whole damned arm.
Note that no licenced doctor could treat him.
Unlicenced, on the other hand . . .
Now, the Master despised 'back alley surgeries' - operations that usually took place on an abandoned wharf in the middle of the night, the instruments were covered by a film of grease and open wounds were sewn up by raw catgut and crochet thread - he put up with them because he had to, for being the luxury of one of the most wanted men in the universe brought with it the (dis)luxury of being on the run a lot and being shot a lot. Not exactly a winning combination. But to actually rub shoulders (and, if the person botched the operation, the muzzle of a TCE gun) with the unlicensed vermin that stalked down dark corridors and haunted hospitals looking for potential 'patients' turned the Master's stomach (which was usually so iron cast, given the grisly events he had seen and caused). From his experience of unlicensed doctors, the Master could see in the apparent future nothing but trouble - cheap trouble, not trouble nonetheless.
But then, the Master had trouble with Doctors in general - and not just the medicinal types either, if you got his drift . . . (Many a night he spent gnashing around in troubled sleep, dreaming of the day he could grab a certain Time Lord by his tousled curly brown hair and throw him into the nearest crevasse - see how he likes it.)
This particular doctor had been recommended to the troubled Gallifreyan by another troubled Gallifreyan by the name of the Meddling Monk, when a troubling situation had coupled the two together in the universal fight for survival. (Don't ask, you'll never receive an answer - what happens in the Matrix, stays in the Matrix)
When the Master had called up, the prissy pants declined to answer the phone, and he heard the most self-righteous answering machine message he had ever heard in his thirteen lives. Through gritted teeth, the Master left his message ---- "I've been shot through the shoulder that contains a living tissue-shrinking virus and you are, unfortunately, the only one who can get it out without having to amputate it. I will pay any price, but I won't wait forever for you to do it. In room 120 at the Plaza Hotel in New York City." After that, he spent five minutes checking his phone connection to see if anyone had his calls tapped. There was no tap.
It took him five hours to reach the Plaza Hotel and check into his pre ordered room - o! blessed Earthly Internet, what would a Time Lord in distress do without you? He scowled at the bellhop and the bellhop scowled back - all the while expecting a tip, on which the Master shortchanged the bugger, in typical New Yorker fashion.
About two hours passed before the good doctor arrived, tools and assistant in tow - the assistant of which the Master wondered if this particular doctor was knowledgeable of current child labour laws. The doctor asked the Master the typical questions - name, birthplace, etc. - of which he lied through his teeth, not fully trusting the surgeon or his female confidant. He was ushered into the nearest hospital - using the back door for secrecy, which in the end didn't matter as almost the entire staff recognised the doctor and let him use their best room. The Master felt like he was part of a big conspiracy that involved the entire hospital, down to the janitors and scrubs, and he loved it.
Then the doctor pulled out his tape recorder (Yes, the handy-dandy tape recorder! Record yourself perform lifesaving surgeries and listen to it over and over again with your family and friends! Never leave home without it - never know when you might need to save a life!) and began recording as the Master was put on the operating table. He tried to give the Master some sort of anaesthetic, but he forcefully declined - and added that he'd better open up the shoulder and only the shoulder, or else.
"Why would I open any other part?" the doctor said quizzically. "The patient has declined anaesthetic of any kind. Stats are normal, heart rate . . . fine. Let's begin the operation."
The doctor moved with a swiftness and exactness the Master had never witnessed before in an operation of any scale. The bullet was removed and isolated in a container and any and all traces of the virus were cut off without harming a single strand of tissue.
As he was closing the wound with ligature, the Master conceded that Black Jack was indeed better than he had ever expected, and made a mental note to remember the unlicensed surgeon's number for future references.
Note that no licenced doctor could treat him.
Unlicenced, on the other hand . . .
Now, the Master despised 'back alley surgeries' - operations that usually took place on an abandoned wharf in the middle of the night, the instruments were covered by a film of grease and open wounds were sewn up by raw catgut and crochet thread - he put up with them because he had to, for being the luxury of one of the most wanted men in the universe brought with it the (dis)luxury of being on the run a lot and being shot a lot. Not exactly a winning combination. But to actually rub shoulders (and, if the person botched the operation, the muzzle of a TCE gun) with the unlicensed vermin that stalked down dark corridors and haunted hospitals looking for potential 'patients' turned the Master's stomach (which was usually so iron cast, given the grisly events he had seen and caused). From his experience of unlicensed doctors, the Master could see in the apparent future nothing but trouble - cheap trouble, not trouble nonetheless.
But then, the Master had trouble with Doctors in general - and not just the medicinal types either, if you got his drift . . . (Many a night he spent gnashing around in troubled sleep, dreaming of the day he could grab a certain Time Lord by his tousled curly brown hair and throw him into the nearest crevasse - see how he likes it.)
This particular doctor had been recommended to the troubled Gallifreyan by another troubled Gallifreyan by the name of the Meddling Monk, when a troubling situation had coupled the two together in the universal fight for survival. (Don't ask, you'll never receive an answer - what happens in the Matrix, stays in the Matrix)
When the Master had called up, the prissy pants declined to answer the phone, and he heard the most self-righteous answering machine message he had ever heard in his thirteen lives. Through gritted teeth, the Master left his message ---- "I've been shot through the shoulder that contains a living tissue-shrinking virus and you are, unfortunately, the only one who can get it out without having to amputate it. I will pay any price, but I won't wait forever for you to do it. In room 120 at the Plaza Hotel in New York City." After that, he spent five minutes checking his phone connection to see if anyone had his calls tapped. There was no tap.
It took him five hours to reach the Plaza Hotel and check into his pre ordered room - o! blessed Earthly Internet, what would a Time Lord in distress do without you? He scowled at the bellhop and the bellhop scowled back - all the while expecting a tip, on which the Master shortchanged the bugger, in typical New Yorker fashion.
About two hours passed before the good doctor arrived, tools and assistant in tow - the assistant of which the Master wondered if this particular doctor was knowledgeable of current child labour laws. The doctor asked the Master the typical questions - name, birthplace, etc. - of which he lied through his teeth, not fully trusting the surgeon or his female confidant. He was ushered into the nearest hospital - using the back door for secrecy, which in the end didn't matter as almost the entire staff recognised the doctor and let him use their best room. The Master felt like he was part of a big conspiracy that involved the entire hospital, down to the janitors and scrubs, and he loved it.
Then the doctor pulled out his tape recorder (Yes, the handy-dandy tape recorder! Record yourself perform lifesaving surgeries and listen to it over and over again with your family and friends! Never leave home without it - never know when you might need to save a life!) and began recording as the Master was put on the operating table. He tried to give the Master some sort of anaesthetic, but he forcefully declined - and added that he'd better open up the shoulder and only the shoulder, or else.
"Why would I open any other part?" the doctor said quizzically. "The patient has declined anaesthetic of any kind. Stats are normal, heart rate . . . fine. Let's begin the operation."
The doctor moved with a swiftness and exactness the Master had never witnessed before in an operation of any scale. The bullet was removed and isolated in a container and any and all traces of the virus were cut off without harming a single strand of tissue.
As he was closing the wound with ligature, the Master conceded that Black Jack was indeed better than he had ever expected, and made a mental note to remember the unlicensed surgeon's number for future references.
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